


Romeo and Cinderella

by miserableboyfriends



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, M/M, One Shot, Unrequited Love, and a ton of angst dumped on grantaire, enjolras being a bit of a so and so really, sex but not explicit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-24
Updated: 2013-04-24
Packaged: 2017-12-09 10:01:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/772937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miserableboyfriends/pseuds/miserableboyfriends
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“We are like Romeo and Cinderella!” Grantaire clamoured.<br/>“That drunkard is certainly no princess!” Came the call from across the cafe.<br/>They all laughed, even Grantaire himself as he leaned in towards his fellow Amis.<br/>“It is a thrilling fairytale indeed! Distant lands, beautiful architecture, and of course the most handsome of Princesses one will ever see!”<br/>Another swig of the bottle. Three quarters down.<br/>“A beautiful love story, a gripping ending! A heart wrenching piece of literature about the meeting of these two unexpected characters! A dance, a ball; it has it all! Beginning in a bustling, yet humble, Cafe in the streets of Paris!”<br/>“That’s not how I recall either story going.” Courfeyrac said with a side glance at his friend.</p>
<p>Grantaire’s smile broadened. His weight now leaned heavily across the table.<br/>“Then you clearly haven’t heard my rendition of it.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Romeo and Cinderella

**Author's Note:**

> So, I was listening to the song 'Romeo and Cinderella' by Miku Hatsune. Yeah, it's Japanese and sung by a machine, but hey, it was enough of a prompt for me  
> If you wanna listen to it just type said title in on YouTube (If you want a good English cover, so you don't have to read subtitles, search for 'romeo and cinderella miku tan' and click the top link)
> 
> Anyway, first Fic on AO3 - And it's a One-Shot, isn't that disappointing?

When asked his relationship with Enjolras, Les Amis’ fearless leader, perfect marble statue of l’ABC Cafe, Apollo-reincarnate, courageous revolutionary, and speaker for the people, Grantaire could never seem to give a solid answer.

It changed every time, moulded to fit the occasion, specific to the person inquiring, and the nature of their question.

It also depended on how much wine was left in Grantaire’s bottle.

The green glass spoke two-thirds gone when Jehan voiced the question.

“We are like Romeo and Cinderella!” Grantaire clamoured, splaying his arms wide as the dramatic he was.  His intoxicated smile and rise and fall of his eyebrows invited the laughs he was returned with gusto.

“I cannot say I’ve heard that one before.” Combeferre said in all seriousness, despite the curl of his lips as he fixed his eyes across the table, “Do those characters even coincide?”

“That drunkard is certainly no princess!” Came the call from across the cafe.

They all laughed, even Grantaire himself as he leaned in towards his fellow Amis.

“It is a thrilling fairytale indeed! Distant lands, beautiful architecture, and of course the most handsome of Princesses one will ever see!”

Another swig of the bottle. Three quarters down.

“A beautiful love story, a gripping ending! A heart wrenching piece of literature about the meeting of these two unexpected characters! A dance, a ball; it has it all! Beginning in a bustling, yet humble, Cafe in the streets of Paris!”

“That’s not how I recall either story going.” Courfeyrac said with a side glance at his friend.

Grantaire’s smile broadened. His weight now leaned heavily across the table.

“Then you clearly haven’t heard my rendition of it.”

* * *

The introductions are skipped and the characters back stories overlooked.

The reader already knows them, the listener does not wish for a recount of their petty lives. Everybody knows what has lead the two characters together in such a strange parody of fate, knows all about the entangling of their red strings.

So, the story starts where the mid-point should be.

It starts with a ball.

It starts with a dance.

* * *

Marius had off about Cosette a few weeks earlier, although such an occurrence could never be used to date a tale being recollected. Talk of the girl never did stop spouting from the boy’s mouth. Like a fountain that couldn’t be turned off; as much as Les Amis loved the figure carved into the stone and although the water made pretty patterns in the light, the soft sloshing sound became tiresome very quickly.

“Let’s hope your love doesn’t turn into a tragedy.” Combeferre muttered, the frustration evident in his voice. His patience with Marius had been wearing thin this particular evening.

“Yes, like it was for Romeo and Juliet!” Courfeyrac followed suit.

There was a chorus of laughter, the tinkling of bottles, and an exasperated sigh from their leader. Causing Marius discomfort had become a professional sport within the confines of the Cafe, after all.

“Come now, Marius!” Joly chimed, “There will be plenty more fine ladies at the dance tonight!”

Grantaire took another swig of his bottle. Ah, yes, the fine art of ballroom dancing. Not something he ever had the chance to master, nor cared for, although he thought he’d do just smashing with a few more glasses of wine and a more than slightly affectionate partner to take home after.

“Alas, I care not.” Marius cooed, leaning heavily on his hand as he stared wistfully at the wall, “For Cosette, she is the only fine lady for me.”

Combeferre and Courfeyrac were already collecting up their bottles and pulling on their jackets as Joly leant over to rub Marius’ shoulders from behind.

“Oh, I don’t know, Marius!” The ever-cheerful man said, “Who says your princess won’t be at the ball anyway?”

Grantaire hid his snort in his bottle.

It seemed enough to convince the star-struck lover in the room, however, and he was soon on his feet and straightening out his waistcoat. Les Amis tried to contain their remarks and chuckles at the speed that Marius’ spirits could be lifted at the mention of a by-chance meeting with his beloved Cosette. Joly had also straightened up, wiping his hands on his trousers as he went.

If Grantaire didn’t know better, he’d think the man was afraid of catching the love-bug currently burrowing its ugly head into the thickness of Marius’ brain.

He chuckled the thought off as a private joke, kept all to himself.

“Not coming, Enjolras?”

Combeferre paused at his leader’s table, stopping to place a friendly hand on his arm as the others filed out down the stairs. It was more than an invitation, a gesture of pleading and words unspoken. Enjolras continued to pour over his littering of maps and street plans.

“Higher cause, gentleman. Higher cause.”

A mumble of agreement, infected with a few laughs. A squeeze of the shoulder and Combeferre was gone, disappearing down below. The sounds of Les Amis’ voices could be heard in the street below; joyful singing and more laughter, gradually fading into the constant bustle and buzz of the street outside.

A dog barked, marking Enjolras as now completely alone.

He did not break from his work, leaning heavily on his palms and bending low over the articles spread across the table surface. A muttered curse and he relieved himself, considering his work done for the night. There was nothing more that could be completed at this hour, he decided, not without a rest by any means. The thought of spending another night falling asleep at that very table before him was not a pleasant one.

He took a swig from a discarded bottle, finishing the final quarter of one of his fellow’s drinks. Enjolras only ever drunk when he was alone, and even then rarely. The bottle made a soft clink as it was put down.

It was followed by a second clink. Enjolras frowned and turned.

Grantaire was watching him idly from his table not 10 feet away, feet perched on the wooden top and a curious smile on his lips. Confident, inviting, and almost, above all else, smug. He leant back further in his chair, raising his bottle in an almost-toast to the man now staring back at him. Mocking him? Maybe. Maybe not.

Enjolras turned fully to face the black haired man as he spoke, folding his arms across his chest as he lent back against the table.

“I would have thought you’d be the first to leave at the proposition of wine, women, and song, Grantaire.”

An almost-insult. Mocking? Probably.

“I thought I’d stay and keep my dear Apollo company in his ever glorious work!”

An almost-compliment. Mocking? Yes.

Enjolras let out a heavy set sigh, turning back to his maps, charts, and other important pieces. Palms resting difficulty on the table, he scanned, disinterested, the lines and graphs and arrows. They seemed to blur into one and become a swirl of meaninglessness, the distraction short lived. The night was growing old, after all.

The idea of sleeping in the adjacent room came to the forefront of his mind. It was not entirely unpleasant; the room was left relatively clean and always ready for use. The owners of the Cafe knew he frequented it, staying there 2 to 3 times a week when night fell too early and the prospect of the long walk home became very daunting. Having a real bed with real bedding to sleep in was a great improvement to collapsing head first onto a wooden table.

Needless to say, nobody ever questioned Enjolras’ dedication to his work.

Despite this, the adjacent room was lonely all the same. Lonely and cold. Also empty, save a bed, small table, and a flat-backed piano devoid of all use and covered with a layer of dust.

Enjolras would never admit it, even on his death bed, but Grantaire was better company than none. He’d never let the drunkard know.

“All the other Amis have left to dance,” The blonde breathed, “And all the adults retired to bed,”

He turned back to the other man, facing him once more.

“I find it hard to believe you only remain here to aid my work.”

Grantaire’s eyes glinted in the dim light.

“What makes you so sure of an... _ulterior motive_ , dear Apollo?” The man’s head rolled to the side, his grin doubling in size, “Do you really think that little of me?”

Enjolras kept his retort to himself. His weight shifted on the table to a more comfortable position.

“Why are you still here, Grantaire?” He said bluntly.

Raising his bottle to his lips, the drunkard mumbled something inaudible amidst the glass. He then tipped it back, swallowing the remaining contents.

“I didn’t quite catch tha--”

“I can’t dance.” Grantaire said just as bluntly as the question, “Never learned and was certainly never taught.”

Enjolras blinked. Then blinked again.

“You can’t ...?”

Grantaire let out a chuckle, leaning his head fall back on the chair, still tilted on two legs as his feet twitched on the table. Bitterness seeped into his voice and curled around the laugh, with the man making no attempt to hide it.

“Not all animals are born to fly, Enjolras.” The bottle was returned to his lips, the last few dregs of wine slipping down his throat. “Or at least, not all animals are born in environments where they _need_ to.”

Sometimes Enjolras forgot not all Les Amis were as fortunate in the social status department as himself. But they forgave him for it, because it was simply because he considered them all, including himself, equal.

“Would you like to learn?” Enjolras asked.

Grantaire’s eyes, sharp and unnerving, were suddenly upon him in with a quick twist of the head, a jerk of the neck. Their eyes met and locked, and the air was so thick both strained not to choke on it. Boots were removed from the table and lowered to the floor in silence as Grantaire sat up straight, nursing his bottle in both hands between his legs.

“Are you offering a lesson?” He ventured.

“Are you willing to accept one?” Came the counter.

Grantaire’s gaze had lowered itself to the floorboards, where he searched desperately for an answer among the cracks and joins of the wood.

“Wouldn’t I need a partner?” He muttered, his voice low.

Enjolras had brought down his charade of casual affairs swiftly and the excuse was weak, they both knew it.

“I think I’d do just fine.”

Grantaire looked up at him again, swallowing down a gulp of air that was threatening to suffocate him, really looking at the man before him. But Enjolras had turned away, moved from his position against the table. The gracefulness with which he moved had always astounded the drunkard, even in his most intoxicated stupors, but it was nothing compared to how he noticed it then. The blond had already pushed ajar the light wooden door to the adjacent room, side stepping inside, leaving the entrance wide and inviting. It was expected that Grantaire would follow.

It was not that Enjolras had given up on his work, or that this could ever be considered slacking. On the contrary, what was occurring then was, in Enjolras’ eyes, just as key to his cause as any map, chart, or diagram.

Enjolras had always considered every man equal under God, the most obvious reason why he found how his homeland was currently ruled so despicable. The rest of Les Amis shared this view, and the ideals of the better society that went hand-in-hand with it. Grantaire did not. Grantaire did not see everyone as equal, even if it was only so he could consider himself a lesser being to Enjolras.

In this, whatever _this_ was, Enjolras sought to prove Grantaire wrong. He was not stooping to the other man’s level either; he was elevating Grantaire to his own.

Enjolras lowered himself onto the seat at the piano, drawing it out from what had been its final resting place under the wooden frame. Dust littered all area of the instrument, clouding the air in a huge gasp as the lid was pulled back to reveal the yellowing ivory keys. Fingers rested lightly on them as a light, simple tune trickled out of the hollows of the wood. The sound resonated around the almost empty space, not obnoxiously, only as loud as was necessary. Enjolras repeated the verse once more for safety.

“Think you can commit that to memory?” He asked the would-be empty room.

He didn’t need to turn to know that Grantaire now stood in the doorway.

“I ...” There was a hesitation in the man’s voice that Enjolras had never thought possible, “I think so.”

“Good.”

Enjolras stood and crossed the room, the two of them meeting halfway as the door snapped closed behind them.

“You’re going to have to come closer than that if you wish to reach me, Grantaire.”

The dark haired man had been purposely keeping the distance, another thing Enjolras had never thought possible. If he had to pick any Amis for an award for a lack of concern for personal space, it would have been Grantaire. He was never afraid to get up close and personal to another man or woman, no matter what the situation.

But then again, he’d never learnt to dance either.  A lot of things were changing.

Enjolras sighed as Grantaire shuffled only an inch closer, reaching out with his hand grip the brunette with a strong fist in his waistcoat, drawing him in. Their chests were now flush against each other, Grantaire’s head lifting sharply to look up into the eyes of the man before him. He frowned, but there was no anger to be found in his expression.

“Now, place your hand here ...” Enjolras said, not a single note of frustration evident in his voice as he stiffly moved Grantaire’s hand into place on his left shoulder.

The blond’s right hand moved to clasp Grantaire’s left, giving their fingers a light squeeze for reassurance. Enjolras then placed his remaining hand to the brunette’s waist. He found his placement to be too high quickly, just on Grantaire’s ribcage, and dragged his hand carefully down the man’s side to settle only slightly above his hip. He pretended not to hear the heavy intake of breath from his partner, and chose to ignore his very careless, or perhaps deliberate, mistake.

Grantaire let the breath he held go, flexing his fingers on Enjolras’ shoulder experimentally, giving the man a light squeeze as he chuckled.

“And why, might I ask, dear Apollo, am I playing the _woman_ in this charade?” He spoke lightly, all of the sarcasm and true cynic that made up Grantaire returning with a flourish.

“Because, being the only one who knows what I am doing, I am leading.”

Grantaire’s chuckles rang out and turned into a laugh.

_Any other man_ , he thought with a smile. Any other man would have used it as an insult. But not Enjolras. Not his Apollo.

But Grantaire would forever and always love to tease Enjolras, _(“Now take your right foot and—Grantaire, that is your_ left foot _.” “Is it really, Apollo? Ha, oh my, I had no idea!”)_ even if they both knew it was his coping method with all that had happened and all that was to come. But now there was no need for such a guard, because everything was on show now, everything about Grantaire was being bared for Enjolras to see.

Because if Grantaire was going to allow Enjolras to elevate him to his level, or at least out of the gutter, he was going to have to make sure there were no mistakes. _(“Take a step back, now.“ “Like this?” “Yes, like that.”)_ No cracks in his resolve, no wish to back out at the last moment.

And then they were spinning and twirling and moving round and round _(“Am I doing half as badly as you expected?” “You’re doing twice as well as I had hoped.”)_ and the room was a blur. And Grantaire stopped looking down at his feet and started looking up, up, up and into Enjolras’ face. They looked each other in the eye as they continued to move, _dance_ across the room, boots clicking softly on the wooden floor. The sounds clapped out a rhythm and it recognised the tune engraved in each of their heads and they danced to match it. Twirling, twirling, twirling, as Grantaire thought.

Because they _were_ on the same level, hand-in-hand, chests against each other, and it’s all Grantaire could ever want or ever need. He felt a smile breaking out across his face, feeling like it would split his jaw if it got any bigger, because this, this, _this_ was perfection.

Because Cinderella had shed her rags and arrived at the ball. And she was dancing with the Prince, and everything was right in the world for a moment. Nobody knew where she really came from, or where her true place in the world was.

They slowed to a steady halt with Grantaire’s back brushing against the wall, and the partners put a stop to their dance for fear of crashing into the piano resting in the corner. Hot breath mixed together before them as they both panted softly, Grantaire more so because he was never quite as composed as his leader. Their eyes met once again, blue boring into green, as Enjolras’ hand crept up Grantaire’s waistline and to graze over his ribs once more.

Grantaire was transfixed in the man’s gaze, studying every flicker of light, every reflection in the dim, every pattern of colour that shone in those unblemished blue orbs. There was a moment of clarity, where time did not move and the world froze. Because this is all he could ever want, Grantaire hoped it would last forever.

It didn’t.

Because Enjolras’ hand was on his face, _(“I think that was very good, considering it was your first time trying, Grantaire.”)_ running over his cheek and tilting up his chin. Grantaire’s back pressed heavily against the wall; one hand still gripped the blond’s shoulder like his life depended on it. The air went back to feeling like molten metal, hot and thick and completely toxic to inhale.

Grantaire struggled to remember if this had happened before.

His struggle didn’t last long; Enjolras’ lips were pressed to his in a flurry and he’d have been lucky to remember his own name at that moment.

Because Romeo was no Prince; he was not perfect. He was rich and brought up in a family at the top of all hierarchies. He was capable of being terrible, and terrible he would be. The Montague name may have bound him to his cause but he would deviate from it for his own ideals, and he would deviate from his own ideals for his own desires.

Church bells sounded outside the cafe. 12 strokes for midnight.

Grantaire heard himself moaning against his partner’s mouth, felt the hand stripping him of his waistcoat, but he’d never fight against them. He didn’t have any desire to fight against them, only wished they would be a little gentler as his trousers pool around his knees in a swift tug and his pants follow suit. He bit his lip to escape the lewd sounds he might have made as he was kissed on his neck, his ear, the grip on his chin tight as ever as the other man forced his head to turn and be kissed again. Grantaire tangled his fingers in the mass of blonde curls, not even making an attempt to remove any of Enjolras’ clothing. He knew the man wouldn’t let him, wouldn’t stoop to such a level.

Because you can preach equality and still be as proud and mighty as you like.

* * *

Grantaire curled in on himself further from where he lay on the rooms only piece of presentable furniture; the small single bed in the corner, with the scratchy sheets that never could keep out the cold. He faced towards the wall and away from the rest of the room, shutting his eyes against the sounds, rustles of Enjolras making himself presentable in the clothing that had never left his body. Pulling the thin bed sheets closer to cover himself, (to cover his nakedness, even though he was not allowed the privilege of feeling ashamed) the brunette could only be thankful that they made it to the bed across the room this time. Because, if memory served, Enjolras has left him on the floor before.

It wasn’t like Cinderella was above playing the whore.

A hand touched his hair, stroking it back into its untidy place as Grantaire felt a kiss planted on his temple from where he was lying. Those warm lips moved to his ear, making the smaller man shiver as he fisted the sheet tighter in his hand. Enjolras mumbled something quietly, just for the two of them to hear, before straightening up once more.

Grantaire listened to the footsteps trail out the room, the soft swoosh and click of the door opening and shutting behind his visitor. He wished he could settle into a satisfied sleep, as if he was satisfied at all.

Because when the clock has already struck midnight, all of the charades are gone. Cinderella’s still a pauper and Romeo’s still on top, all the magic left at the ball.

It wasn’t just Enjolras who frequented the little adjacent room in L’ABC Cafe. Somebody had to fill it in the 4-5 times a week when night fell too early and the prospect of the long walk home wasn’t so very daunting, when Enjolras wasn’t there. Having a real bed with real bedding to sleep in was a great improvement to collapsing out of sorrow on the way home. Despite this, the adjacent room was lonely all the same. Lonely and cold.

Grantaire knew that all too well.

* * *

They are Romero and Cinderella.

The fairytale twosome who meet in some cruel parody, but cannot be anymore than that.

Because Grantaire is Cinderella; the pauper servant, hard done by life but with not the will to change it. The one who only turns Princess with the aid of a spell and an unexpected comrade, the mix of a drunken stupor and Les Amis that weren’t supposed to become his friends. Because wine is magic enough and the glass bottle fits perfectly in his hand; it was made for him.

And as for Enjolras.

He is Romeo; fiercely loyal, dedicated until death to his Juliet: Patria. There was nothing more to say but that. And he’s not perfect, he will never be perfect.

And, well,

Romeo dies in the end, anyway.

 

* * *

_“A plague on both our houses, it seems.”_


End file.
